Scarlet Trail
by Dior and Chiharu
Summary: Ulquiorra is a detective. Grimmjow is a civilian. A string of murders brings them together. // AU. Yaoi. GrimmUlqui.


**Warning****: Blood and gore—**_**extreme**_** blood and gore. You have been warned. Oh, yes, and man-love later on. **

**Disclaimer****: We do not own **_**Bleach**_** or its characters. Nada. Zilch. We're just playing around in the playground of this interesting creation—that's fanfiction for you. **

**Chapter written by: ChiharuSato22**

**Collaborated by: Dior Crystal**

**Edited by: Dior Crystal & ChiharuSato22**

**Prologue**

Shadows were moving in and about him. Shifting forms could be seen. Everything was dark and _blurry_. His vision was muddied. But, he still continued on his trek, stumbling slightly in his steps. Without a doubt, though, he was moving forward.

The look of _fear_ reverberated from the other's eyes, sprawled out weakly on the ground. There was also a questioning look of _disbelief_ and _betrayal_. A soft whimper could be heard from him, orange hair plastered tiredly over his face, covered in sweat and still perspiring.

He moved forward, _without hesitation_—the unfamiliar, _hostile_ red glint never leaving his eyes.

"What...?" the other choked out in his confusion, scuttling backwards hastily. "W-What are you doing?" he stuttered, backing away steadily.

The other continued to advance, not yielding at the words.

Looking like cornered _prey_, he continued to shift away, his eyes widened and pupils dilated in _fear_, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, glancing back and forth in _panic_.

The predator continued to advance, a _savage grin_ resting smugly on his face—satisfaction glistening in his eyes. Then, without even the slightest warning, he attacked.

There was a _cry of fear_ as the other dodged the form that had just launched at him.

Hunched over and growling, he prepared himself to try again, readying his legs and pouncing again. This time, he caught the other.

_A shriek bypassed his lips. _

He bared his fangs, biting into his prey's _neck_. When he removed his teeth, blood _sprayed_. He licked his lips, returning to the bite, effectively draining the victim of his blood.

He fell limp in the other's arms, clearly looking hurt. The victim clutched at his attacker's sleeve weakly, trying to bring the man _back to his senses_.

"Please… Stop it…" the young man choked. "Why are you doing this…?" Warm, brown eyes were filled with so much _confusion_ and _pain_ that it was unbearable to look at.

Still, there was more to come. The predator paid no heed to the man's words. Nothing else mattered now. When he saw crimson, all thought flew out of his mind, sending him into a frenzy. He tore at the body, ripping it apart _limb from limb_ and tearing at the torso _wildly_ with his hands, a _pool of red_ steadily forming on the floor.

_Blood is life._

It runs in your veins; take it away and there is only _death_. Therefore, _crimson is the colour of life._

It made him feel so alive, so _real_.

The rich, salty taste filled his mouth, filling his _senses_.

_He was addicted to it._

He was no longer man, no longer capable of thinking; he was controlled by the sight, by the taste, by the salty smell of blood.

And he wanted _more_.

He dug his clawed fingers into the man's stomach, his whole arm stained a _bright red_, digging so deep that he reached the spine, damaging, ripping apart and _pulling out_ organs.

There was one last scream of _terror_. Then, it all went quiet except for the disgusting sound of muscles being torn from bones and a body being _disemboweled_—the sickening crunch of bones cracking and flesh tearing. He knew that it was over when the light left his victim's eyes and when blood trickled out of his mouth, his clutch on his sleeve loosening until the hand fell to its owner's side limply.

The body was _thrown haphazardly_ in a corner—or, rather, the _remains_ of the body. It was in a completely unrecognizable state of being.

The _predator_, with some semblance of sanity—or perhaps, _insanity_ was the correct term, took the blood remaining on his fingers and marked the victim, drawing a _crucifix_ above the remnants of the corpse in a gruesome display of disrespect for human life.

Then, _he left_, leaving behind _bloody flesh_ and a crucifix marked in blood.

Thus, this was the beginning of one of the _worst_ and most _unexplainable_ serial murders in the history of serial murders that was marked since Edward Theodore Gein.

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**DC:** _It'll be my turn to write the next chapter. So… Don't expect too much. Haha. _ This is my 2__nd__ time working together with a friend on a fic._

**CS:**_ Haha. That was...interesting. It's my first time writing something like this and it just makes it all the more exciting to be writing it with a friend, Mel. So, this is what it's going to be about. If this scared you, I do not recommend reading it. It's only going to get worse from here—it's all downhill from here on out, right? So, if you read this and still want to continue, I commend you for your bravery. Italics (aside from these) represent the themes of this whole fic. Good luck!_


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